


Midnight Troubles Go Marching On

by malchanceux



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Always a Girl Will Graham, Does that count for forced sedation? idfk, Dubious Consent, F/M, Genderbending, Genderswap, Kidnapping, Mentions of Pregnancy, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Prompt Fill, Rule 63, Willow Graham, encephalitis, girl!Will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:06:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malchanceux/pseuds/malchanceux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: "Hannibal comes to Fem!Will's house under the pretense of a case. Will gets a phone message from Jack saying Hannibal is the Ripper and that they lost track of him. Will and Hannibal fight, Hannibal wins, and stuffs Will in the trunk of his car and makes off merry with his prize".</p><p>Or, at least something to that effect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt on the dreamwidth kinkmeme: http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/2676.html?thread=5568372&posted=1#cmt5612404
> 
> You know, the thing is that after filling this I would really like one with a normal, male Will Graham, ya know what I mean? But I don't want to write it. xD So, fml I guess.

Will woke to sound of shuffling, whining dogs and a steady knocking on her door. She rolled over onto her side, stretching sleep heavy limbs in every which direction while squinting at the digital clock on her bedside table. Twelve o’clock and the dogs weren’t barking: had to be Jack. She buried her face into her pillow and groaned.

Grabbing her glasses and stumbling up, Willow almost walked out of her room and downstairs in nothing but her boyshorts and sleeping bra. She clambered through her drawers for a t-shirt and sleep shorts, struggling with the simple articles of clothing and balance in her exhausted haze. She hadn’t gotten home from the Bureau until ten, didn’t get the dogs fed and settled until somewhere a lot closer to eleven. With that and how little sleep she got on a regular basis anyway, Will was all but dead on her feet.

The steady knocking repeated, a little more firm this time, as Will made her way down the stairs and through the obstacle course of agitated dogs. She stopped at the door and considered the gun she kept in a kitchen drawer, but the dogs were calm for the most part—more excited at the prospect of a visitor than anything else. She took a moment to rub sleep from her eyes before opening the door.

“Doctor Lecter?” The man stood on her porch, impeccable save for his suit jacket slung over his arm and sleeves folded to quarters. He did not look like a man who had faced a whole day’s work only to make a two hour drive to bumfuck Virginia in the dead of night. He appeared more like a man ready to face the day anew. He exuded the normal strong confidence, though perhaps with a nervous energy underneath. Will tossed that up to her less than two hours sleep: Hannibal and nervous didn’t belong in the same sentence. “It’s late—is everything alright?”

“Jack sent me. You were not answering your phone and he said he needed us for something urgent.”

Willow frowned, not understanding why Jack would send _Hannibal_ all the way out to Wolf Trap when Alana or Price lived about twenty minutes closer.

“I’m sorry—I must have forgotten to take it off silent mode… Does this have something to do with the Ripper?” she asked, standing aside to let the older man in. It would not be the first time she let the man into her home, and hopefully, she thought distractedly, not the last. “Has there been another murder?”

Hannibal slowly made his way into the house, walking through the crowd of dogs like Moses through the Red Sea. Distantly Will wondered how he did that, but pushed the useless thought aside for later.

“Jack did not give me any particulars, though I am inclined to believe it is the Ripper we are dealing with. Why else would he be rousing his team at such an ungodly hour?”

“Point,” Will murmured, heading for the stairs again. “Uh, just let me get dressed—I’ll be down in a second.”

Will pit stopped in the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth, pulling her hair up into a sloppy ponytail to get it out of the way. She could hear the door open from down stairs and the scraping clicks of dog feet scurrying out the door. Will smiled, thankful Hannibal had thought of that. She wasn’t sure when she’d be home again; should probably think about feeding the dogs before she left too.

Yawning, Will went to her bedside table and picked up her phone, confirming that it had, indeed, been on silent all night. Five voice mails, a text, and twenty-seven missed calls cluttered her home screen, all from Jack save one missed call from Doctor Lecter. She sighed and checked her texts first.

_11:34a.m: Urgent. Hannibal is the Ripper. We cant find him. Pick up your fucking phone!_

Will’s breath caught in her throat, her stomach sinking onto the floor below as her heart stuttered in her chest. She—she _must_ have read that wrong, or was hallucinating. _Jack_ had to bewrong. _Something had to be wrong._

The floor boards creaked behind her.

Will spun around, startled and dropping the phone as she did. Hannibal stood just outside her bedroom, face agonizingly neutral and body language almost exaggeratedly calm. She felt her heart begin to race and shatter, like butterfly wings in a hurricane, because even if she were hallucinating, it all made so much sense. The Ripper was an incomplete puzzle, and Doctor Hannibal Lecter was the missing pieces.

“Will? Is everything alright?” his tone was flat, he knew _she_ knew.

“I trusted you,” was all Will could manage, breathy and barely there—she felt tears prickle at her eyes but refused to cry. Not in front of him. Not now. “ _I_ _trusted you.”_

“And have I ever given you reason not to? Have I ever hurt you?”

“You’re the Chesapeake Ripper; a _serial killer_. And—oh my god. You’ve been feeding me—us— _people!”_

Hannibal took a slow step forward, stance steady and intimidating. Will felt overwhelmed and scared, confused and helpless—suddenly the broad shoulders and lean muscle she so much admired made her feel cornered and small: a rabbit stuck in a trap about to spring.

“I am and have done all those things, and yet, have I ever hurt you, truly? Neglected you? Used you for my own gain and pushed your mind to its limits? I was not lying when I said I would be your paddle, Will—I have been the one to keep your sanity tethered to your wrist like a balloon on a string. And yet, where has your bedrock gone?”

“That’s hardly the fucking point, Hannibal.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Don’t push this on Jack, he’s not the one killing people.”

Hannibal chuckled then, deep and dark: a haunting thing. “Oh but we both know that isn’t quite true, don’t we Willow? What sort of man sends a _student_ to do an _agents_ job? He sent Miriam Lass to her death the moment he called her into his office. And then, even after _that_ debacle, he sends for _you._ A teacher who was declared too unstable for the field, and yet he pushes you harder than he should dare with those even with average minds.”

The doctor took a deep breath; another step forward—now completely in the room. “I was wrong when I said he sees you as a fragile little teacup, Will. To him, you are nothing more than a _disposable cup_ : cheap plastic reserved for no one and used at the slightest whim, abused until worn beyond repair and replacable. He hides behind his wife’s approaching death like a child not ready to give up his favorite toy, but Jack Crawford knows full well what field work is doing to your mind, my dear Willow, and yet he persists and pesters and guilt’s you into looking through the minds of murderers for his _own gain_.”

Silence fell for a beat then, the tension in the air palpable. Fury and fear flowed through Will’s veins in equal measure, creating a heady mix. She fought to keep her cool, to stay focused and alert. Hannibal was only trying to distract her. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Let me go, Hannibal,” Will all but growled, widening her stance—preparing for fight or flight.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that my dear Will.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

Hannibal didn’t answer. Will tried to keep her breathing under control, but silence hung over them both like the blade of a guillotine poised and ready to fall at the slightest sound. She was scared witless, faced with the killer who’d been fucking her mind over for months, leading her dreams down sorrowful, corpse ridden paths; creating nightmares. She didn’t know what to do; her FBI training was quickly flying out the window the more she thought about it—about how Hannibal Lecter, the man she trusted so completely, was the very thing she feared the most. She realized almost distractedly that the doctor letting her dogs out had not been a kind gesture. They could not come to her aid unless she made it outside.

Will’s mind raced through possibilities, taking her body mass and stamina into consideration. Fighting head on would be suicidal, but thinking her speed and slighter body would get her out of this situation alone would be highly arrogant and underestimating Hannibal to the extreme. He killed without prejudice: men and woman of all shapes and sizes. The doctor would be prepared for anything.

The answer was simple then: attacking fast and strong and unpredictable—aim to disable and run like hell. She only needed to make it to the dogs.

Following through with the _unpredictability,_ Will grabbed her bedside lamp on a whim and threw it as hard as she could at the wall across from them. She didn’t throw it _at_ Hannibal because she was barefoot and the broken glass would be unavoidable if she did, but the action had its desired effect nonetheless. Hannibal took a surprised step back as Will charged, the sudden dark working to her advantage. She knew the house a lot better than Hannibal did. The shadows would work in her favor.

Will threw herself at Hannibal, elbow landing at his sternum and momentum throwing them both back and out of the bedroom and into the hall. The doctor grunted in pain, but snagged a firm hand in her hair and around her forearm nonetheless. He spun them around then, so much stronger than he looked as he all but lifted her off the ground before pinning her to the wall. A picture frame jolted from its place by Will’s head, nearly falling off and giving Will another idea. She yanked the picture from the wall and aimed to bash the doctor’s head in.

Hannibal jumped back, barely avoiding being bludgeoned at least into a stupor. Will meant to hold onto the frame but her hands were damp with a nervous sweat and it slipped from her grasp, sending glass shattering across the floor. She felt it imbed into her feet as she ran towards and down the stairs into the living room, hissing out a muted litany of curses but otherwise ignoring the injuries.

Will’s heart raced as she drew closer to the door, the sound of Hannibal’s expensive Italian leather shoes pounding like the hooves of her nightmare stag behind her; growing closer with each step. Elation bloomed in her chest as her hand twisted the door knob, but died with a frustrated grunt as she found it locked. The second it took her to unlock it, to finally turn the knob and open the door if only by inches, was all the time Hannibal needed to catch up.

A hand grabbed her hair and yanked her back and away from the door; another slammed it shut. The sound of the lock switching back in place sounded final, haunting, ringing out like the crack of thunder. The hand in her hair held tight, even as Will twisted around to land another blow at Hannibal’s now bruised and tender sternum. The hit earned her a second grunt in pain, but the grip on her hair only tightened before Hannibal used the leverage to slam her bodily to the floor.

Will’s head hit the wood flooring hard, sending the world into a muted static as the room spun around her. She scrunched her eyes shut against the dizzy spell and the sudden throbbing at her temple, nauseous at the feel of warm, slick blood oozing into her hair and onto the floor, smearing across her cheek and neck as she struggled to lift her head. Rough hands grabbed up her wrists, holding them together tightly as a Hannibal straddled her lap, pinning her to the floor with his body. She wasn’t getting free again.

A soft whimper escaped her as a zip tie was wrapped around her wrists, fear clawing at her insides as the Chesapeake Ripper’s previous kills flashed through her mind. Will saw brutality and torture and so much fucking pain and she wondered— _imagined—_ what Hannibal would do to her.

“Shhh,” Hannibal whispered, voice soft and deep and slightly breathless as well, which brought Will an abstract sense of pride. A hand cupped the uninjured side of her head as another prodded gently at the bleeding wound. Will felt tears well up and spill as she looked everywhere except at the man on top of her, breath coming in quick shallow pants as panic constricted her throat. Maybe she’d be lucky and pass out before the _Ripper_ started _ripping_.

“None of that, Will,” Hannibal murmured, wiping away her tears with his thumbs. “Breathe for me, my dear. Deep breaths.”

Will took a shuddery gasp of air before a sob escaped her once more, tears flowing freely as the doctor’s soothing tone burned like salt in her wounds. Was he mocking her, insulting how _god damned_ dependant she had become on him for stability? She had trusted him, confided in him and bared her mind for him and him alone. Will had thought they were growing closer, thought maybe he cared for her past that of a doctor for a patient. She felt so _fucking_ stupid and scared and _helpless_ and this was it: Hannibal was going to kill her.

In the midst of a full on panic attack, the world faded into the background. Vaguely Will heard dogs barking from outside, muffled by the sound of her own ragged panting and the loud pounding of her heart. _Vaguely_ she heard Hannibal from above her, murmuring something too soft to make out—perhaps not even English. Black dots were beginning to take over her vision and her limbs grew numb and weak from the lack of oxygen. Her fear induced panic was making her defenseless against the very thing she was afraid of. Will knew from experience that she wouldn’t be conscious for much longer if she kept on as she was.

Will felt a small, sharp sting at the crook of a bound arm, and slowly, so tantalizingly slow, reality came back to her. Will’s heart tapered from its racehorse gallop, her breathing deepened. Her head, however, stayed in a muted, clouded state, just as her limbs lost the tingling, numb sensation, but regained none of their strength.

Will flicked her eyes open, not remembering when she had shut them, and saw Hannibal staring down at her with a critical eye. He held a syringe in one hand, with only the barest amount of some clear liquid in its barrel.

“Did you just drug me?” she hissed, voice barely above a whisper; rough and breathless from her episode. Hannibal replaced the cap on the needle before setting the syringe aside. Will entertained the idea of struggling again; of kicking out and swinging a two-handed fist, but found her body utterly lethargic.

“A sedative. I brought it with me just in case,” Hannibal explains, speaking in hushed, soft tones. Like what he was saying could be any less fucked up if he was gentle about it. “I did not give you the full dose; I don’t want it aggregating your head wound.”

At that Hannibal’s hand returns to the bleeding gash. Will turned her head defiantly, yet slow in her exhaustion. “Don’t.”

Hannibal ignored her. “We’ll have to clean that up, dear Will, or it may become infected.”

“Infection is hardly a problem for a corpse—are you not going to kill me?” Willow asked, utterly bemused. The Ripper was not one to keep his victims alive. Never once had a witness been found, or a _‘pig’_ failed in the slaughter.

“Dear Will, I’ll have you know I am a man who takes care of his things and detests waste. Killing you would be a folly in both counts.”

Will wants to retort, curse; blast the doctor with some sarcastic, biting remark. But he stood then; using Will’s bound wrists to pull her up with him. The thought of making a break for it ran through her mind, but as soon as she had her own two feet beneath her she hissed in pain, suddenly remembering the glass imbedded in her feet. With the adrenalin rush fading, the pain was too much to even stand on.

Hannibal caught on, and though startling Will more, pulled her up into a princess carry. At the quick shift the world tilted and Will scrunched her eyes shut at the sudden vertigo and nausea.

“A side effect of both the fall and the sedative, I’m afraid.” Hannibal commented lightly, like he hadn’t been the cause of both. Will kept her mouth shut though, bile perching just under her chin. She kept her eyes shut against the dizzying spin of the room as Hannibal carried her to the couch.

Will saw the nightmare stag then, as it stood tall and proud near the front door. It had lost its fur and feathers in a trade for a more human body—for an almost skeletal appearance with thin, silk black skin and high cheekbones. The stag’s antlers are no less proud, no less intimidating. They stood at a threatening attention as the beast mocked her failed escape.

“Will?”

Will’s eyes fluttered open to the lit expanse of her living room. She was lying on her couch with Hannibal standing over her supine form, brow furrowed and hand at her shoulder like he had been trying to get her attention for a while. For a split second, she forgot her predicament—thought it a fucked up hallucination—but the slight throb at the side of her skull, sting at her feet, and the sticky bite of duct tape at her ankles grounded her back into reality.

She blinked heavy eyelids, and glared at the man above her.

“You lost time,” Hannibal said then, straightening up. “I have removed the glass from your feet and bandaged them, and have cleaned the cut at your temple. Luckily it was small and did not require anything more than a superficial cleaning. You have a slight fever however, though unfortunately we have a twenty minute window to get well away from Wolf Trap before Uncle Jack and his men lay siege to your humble abode. I will have to worry about that later.”

“Or the alternative of _not_ being a complete psychopath and letting me go,” Will quipped sarcastically. Her voice was firm and did not tremble the way her mind and heart did with fear. She knew Hannibal could hear it all the same.

The doctor leaned forward and placed a strip of tape across her mouth. Will remembered the dogs then, realized that they would not understand that Hannibal—once a trusted friend and welcomed guest—was a threat. Not without her giving them the order to _attack_.

“I know how well trained your dogs are, dear Will. I will remove the tape when it is no longer necessary for my own health,” Hannibal scoped her off the couch and into his arms, picking her up like she weighed nothing. Seeing under the guise of a mousey psychiatrist for the second time in one evening sent her stomach into a nervous fit—or perhaps that was just the concussion.

Will squirmed in the pretense of putting up a real struggle, but her body was still loose from the sedative; exhausted from the fight and panic attack. Hannibal had also re-restrained her arms behind her back, making her movements awkward and difficult. In response to her insistent movement, the doctor gripped her more firmly to his chest. Without her arms to help keep her balanced, Willow had no choice but to rest her head at Hannibal’s chest. In another time, this would have been an ideal position. She had fantasized once, of what Hannibal’s heartbeat would be like; of what his arms around her would feel like. Not once had she thought nausea, kidnapping, or cannibalism would be in any way a factor.

Will held back stinging tears and gritted her teeth against the sudden onslaught of dizziness that came with her change in position and the rocking motion of Hannibal walking.

The doctor opened the front door with ease, even with Will in his arms. The nights chilly air nipped at Will’s exposed skin, making goose flesh rise on her bare legs and arms. Distractedly, Will hoped Hannibal would keep the front door open to give the dogs a chance to go in from the cold.

Will had expected to see Hannibal’s Bentley, but a nondescript black town car sat in her gravel driveway instead. The change in vehicle would only make it _that_ much harder for Jack to find her. Will felt her heart stutter in a feeble attempt to fight the drugs and spur her into another panic attack. She whimpered and stuttered, still fighting back tears as her situation fully sunk in.

“Hush Will,” Hannibal said softly, kissing the top of her head. The dogs trotted around them, curious and concerned for their master but not understanding the implications of the situation. Winston barked, not threatening, but not as benign as the other dogs either. He probably knew she was upset, but with the way he wagged his tail slightly at Hannibal, he failed to realize that the doctor was the threat.

Hannibal walked around the car to the back where the trunk was wide open. The inside was large and empty save for a soft looking pillow and blanket. It hit Will then that Hannibal planned on putting her in the trunk. She squirmed a little more harshly then as a new fear settled over her. Willow Graham was not claustrophobic, but the dark confines of a moving car’s boot still scared her more than she thought it would. Then again, she had never actively thought what it would be like to be shoved into a car’s trunk.

“I have rigged the trunks light, Will. It will be dim, but bright enough for you to see. I will stop in an hour or so to check up on you,” Hannibal said as he carefully lowered her into the trunk. Will was shaking, not full body tremors, but harsh enough to be noticeable. She looked up at him—startled, angry, and scared—as the doctor tucked the blanket around her trembling limbs. She felt her tears once again overflow and streak down her cheeks. Hannibal reached a hand under the pillow and pulled out another syringe.

Will whimpered out denials, pleading with the Chesapeake Ripper to _stop_. More drugs were the _last_ thing she needed _._  

Hannibal caressed her face, shushing her before moving her head to the side. The sting of the needle was easily forgettable, but Willow swore she could feel the burn of the sedative as it surged through her veins. Hannibal stayed with her, gently shushing, cooing nonsense, and petting her hair until she slowly started to lose touch with the world around her; with her emotions. Will’s vision fogged, and she stared at the trunks dim light with a detached fascination.

Will felt the warm touch of lips at her brow, the soft caress of foreign words spoken into her skin; heard the trunk shut with a harsh _thump_ that echoed through her hazy mind. Her eyes never strayed from the trunks light, shining dim like the moon but golden like the sun, and Will dozed to the soothing rocking of the car, convinced she heard the soft tones of Bach like a whisper.

 

 

 

Jack Crawford and his army of SWAT agents miss Hannibal by a resounding eighteen minutes. The house is searched, a struggle confirmed, the dogs wrangled up, and Freddie Lounds is hard at work pestering FBI agents by the time the Head of the BAU gets road blocks underway. By then, it is much too late.

Jack is shouting blindly at any agent who comes too close when a letter is discovered on the dining room table. It is on expensive stationary, written in impeccable cursive, and addressed directly to Jack.

_Old Friend,_

_How noble of you to come to the rescue, though I am afraid you are too little, too late. You left your most valuable asset so vulnerable, Jack, so far out of your reach—and I mean more than mere miles and roads apart. How distant you and Will have become as of late, don’t you agree? I can hardly take all the credit for her sudden “self” isolation; your mistrust and maltreatment made my guiding hand almost unnecessary._

_Take heart in that Willow Graham will surely remain in one, sane piece now that she is away from you and the FBI. She was always so much more than the feral search dog you made her out to be, Jack. I shall see to it that Will reaches her true potential and is properly cared for. That is what you hired me for, isn’t Jack? To take care of your sniffer dog?_

_You will hunt for me now, I am sure of this. You will hunt and hunt and run in circles and never get closer than I want you. Rest at ease, at least, knowing Will is at her rightful place by my side. I find I have become far more attached to this stray you sent me than I had first intended. For that, Jack Crawford, I thank you._

_-HL_


	2. A Good Man Is Hard To Find

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't know if I made 'Midnight Troubles' into a series if those who subscribed would get a notification, so I decided to just add "A Good Man Is Hard To Find" as two more chapters.
> 
> This will probably disappoint. Smh. The final chapter has no current due date. It's half done, at least. So maybe in a month or so.
> 
> Additional tags have been added as necessary.

 

 

 

 

They find her in Florida.

Or.

Perhaps it is more accurate to say she finds _them_ , because she can’t really say if any law enforcement have even still been looking for her. She can’t blame them. Willow Graham has been missing for eight months.

Captivity had been hard, at least the parts she can remember. It was a lot of sleeping, a lot of drugs, a lot of talking, a lot of bleeding, a lot of eating _—_

A lot of dead people.

When Willow closes her eyes, a pile of corpses sit rotting in a hulking pile. Flies fester, buzzards scavenge; there are surgical cuts from where someone has selected organs of choice. A fire is lit, nipping at the bodies but never quite consuming. The smell of burning flesh coils unyielding around Willow’s nose.

The blistering burn on her hand throbs in time with her breathing.

The local police are dazed at first, unsure of what to do with the woman who had been dominating every news station in the United States for the last one-hundred and eighty days. At first they are concerned. They bring Will a blanket to cover her shaking body, ask if she would like to use the showers to wash off the mud that had long dried—caked—over her legs and arms.

 _No,_ she shakes her head, but they are persistent.

Willow bites one of the officers who gets too close; gets too hands-on. She bites hard enough to draw blood and a scream.

“Call the FBI,” her voice is hoarse, but her eyes are sharp as she wipes the blood from her lips. “Call Jack Crawford.”

That is the last thing Will says, no matter the prompting from the sheriff or his deputies—the furious yelling of the young man who now needs stitches. No matter how desperately they cooed and called and _clawed_ for some form of a retort, she kept her silence.

An older officer with salt and pepper hair guides Will to a holding cell. He leaves the door open, but it is clear that she is not to leave. He is calmer than the others; not kind but not _un_ kind. He leaves her in the cell—the shouting of the other men is just in ear-reach. Willow hears him speak simple demands and the noise simmers to nothing.

“I scavenged something from the communal fridge,” he says when he returns, a tray of mixed-matched foods scrambled together. There is an apple, a half of a turkey sandwich, a snack-pack pudding cup, two cups of applesauce, and a bag of Cheetos.

“Name’s Garth,” he introduces himself to an unresponsive room. Might as well be speaking to the walls. He places the tray by the door, keeping his distance. He’s trying to show indifference out of respect, but all Willow can see is fear and pity.

“I’m havin’ the boys contact the FBI now, but it’ll be a while before anyone can come and… Well. We called an ambulance. We’re having a room set aside for you at the hospital for now.”

 _Translation: we don’t want you here_.

Willow hasn’t been in the building for more than an hour and she’s already managed to alienate the entire police station.

Garth leaves the tray and doesn’t come back. Willow doesn’t acknowledge the food. Paramedics arrive 20 minutes later with a gurney and a sedative; it takes three of them to hold her down long enough for it to kick in.

 

 

 

 

To say Willow’s time under Hannibal’s ‘care’ has made her brittle would be disingenuous. She had always been short tempered, cynical; rude. Rough around the edges when she was on her best behavior. The only difference between Willow Graham _now_ versus the Willow Graham _before_ , was she no longer saw the point in pretense.

Propriety could get fucked.

This is probably why Willow finds herself on the wrong side of an interrogation room. She didn’t play the part of the conventional victim, so _surely_ she must be colluding with the perpetrator. Looking down at the handcuffs bolted to the middle of the table, harsh and biting into the already-abused flesh of her wrists, Willow blames Lecter for this too. He took away the thin veil of normalcy she had. Alienated her in what used to be Will’s natural environment.

Willow used to imagine what it would be like to return home, to be _rescued._ Jack Crawford’s dark expression was never a part of her little fantasies. Perhaps that was just an oversight on her part.

“I don’t know where Hannibal is,” Will says for what feels like the hundredth time. Her throat is dry, voice soar. She had woken up screaming in her hospital room, bound to the bed so she could not move. She had struggled and bit and spit with an animalistic terror until her strength ran out, and her adrenaline ran dry.

Will desperately wanted a cup of water.

“I find it hard to believe that after months with Lecter, that you have _no_ information on his where abouts. Or where he's _been._ Where he held you.”

“Believe what you want. I can't give what I don't have.”

A hiss of breath left clenched teeth. Jack stood from his chair, looming over Will with his hulking frame. It is a tactic she has seen the head of the BAU use on several unsubs in this exact room. Never before had Will thought he’d focus his wrath on her.

The door to the interrogation room opened abruptly. A voice as sharp as a blade cutting through the tension in the room; a splash of cold water over a blazing flame.

“Jack Crawford,” the name was said like a parent scolding their child, not like someone demanding answers of their colleague. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“Doctor Bloom, you have no right--”

“ _I_ have no right? And what _right_ do you have to drag a trauma victim out of their hospital bed and into an interrogation room?”

“Will isn't just a trauma victim.”

“You're right. She is also an esteemed special agent for the FBI, your employee, and I _thought_ your friend.”

“We need answers.”

“For the last several months our objective has been to locate and rescue Willow Graham. I was not aware that once found her well-being would no longer be a priority.”

“It is,” Jack snapped, turning his fury towards the doctor. “But there are lives at risk.”

“There are _always_ lives at risk, Crawford. Just forty-eight hours ago Willow was one of them. We can only imagine what she has survived. What she has escaped,” Alan seethed, and Will could not recall ever seeing the man so enraged.

“You need to leave, Doctor Bloom. You are an invited guest; do not overstep your boundaries.”

Alan stayed firm, unimpressed by Jack's temper.

“How do you think the media will react if they were to find out how the FBI was treating the only known surviving victim of the Ripper? I may not be a federal agent, but I can certainly piece together how the bureau would survive a story like that. Especially after the catastrophe of their most wanted serial killer acting as an active consultant.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Only if I have to.”

There’s a moment where the two men stare each other down. Like this, with both _alpha males_ so still and taut, Willow could see behind their facades and get a glimpse of what the months of manhunting has done to them.

Jack’s complexion has become ashen, his eyes tired. There is not as much weight to him as there once was. He has missed a lot of meals, and even more nights rest. Jack Crawford has suffered both professionally and personally by the revelation of who Hannibal Lectern truly is. The weight of betrayal, Will’s abduction, his failing career, and his wife's cancer has sucked the life right out of him.

Gone is the hardened “Guru” of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. In his place is an old hound dog, foaming at the mouth in anticipation, but no longer able to efficiently hunt its prey. Teeth dull, vision blurry, body arthritic and slow.

In contrast, Alan Bloom stood as tall and imposing as he ever had. For Willow this was more disconcerting. The man had always been gentle yet firm; able to take control without his voice raising a single decibel. A true negotiator, wanting to find a solution that best suited all parties involved. Now he used his height to his full advantage, taking a play out of Crawford’s hand book--using his 5’9” stature to make up for his lack in bulk. Alan _loomed_ ; he _threatened_. He threw his weight around just like any other alpha male when they didn’t get their way.

This was not the cordial doctor Alan Bloom Willow had nursed feelings for over the course of the past four years. This was a viper with a sharp tongue and a violent bite.

Will twisted in her seat, leaning to the side as much as the handcuffs would allow her, and vomited bile and water onto the polished concrete floor. The nausea was sudden but intense, and once she had gagged up what little was in her stomach, she began to dry heave. She felt like she was dying; suffocating. She yanked at the handcuffs in spastic, jerking motions. The skin at her wrists split, blood smearing up her arms and across the table.

Will did not hear Alan snap at Jack for the keys to the cuffs, nor does she register them grabbing hold of her arms so they can release her. After what feels like an eternity the vomiting subsided, but her breathing was irregular and Will feels incredibly light headed. The room spun as Doctor Bloom supported her head and kept her from slipping out of her seat. There was more yelling, Jack and Alan and a thousand other voices all around her, before a blur of paramedics came rushing into the interrogation room.

Will registered the passing of countless fluorescent light panels, the stained ceiling tiles of the BAU office. Someone was holding her hand, the grip firm and grounding. Someone was telling her everything would be okay, it would be okay, _be okay._

But it was not _okay_ , and in the pit of spiralling hysteria, Willow wondered if it ever would be again.

 

 

 

 

Will hated Flannery O’Connor.

In her life _Before_ she had never had the heart to admit this to Alan Bloom. Will had been too preoccupied with coaxing the good doctor to see her outside the realm of _patient_ or _subject of study._

Peacocks were unbearably stupid birds.

Will came back to herself tucked into a hospital bed, her hand clasped loosely in a large, warm palm. Soft, not a hand used to labor. For some reason this was an important distinction; a balm to a wound Will could not remember receiving nor understand why it stung so sharply.

The room smelled of a mix of men's cologne and antiseptic cleaner. A man’s voice read out the closing paragraphs to one of O’Connor’s famed short stories. Will smirked, cynical humor coiling inside her chest, and thought: _a good man is hard to find because there are no good men._ Even if Will couldn’t stand her writing, Willow could agree with O’Connor’s view of humanity as a pitiful, fallen creature.

“A little dark, don’t you think?” Will said, voice scratchy and abused, once Bloom had read the final few lines.

“Most of the southern gothics are,” Alan put the book down and used his now free hand to feel Will’s forehead for a temperature. “How are you feeling?”

“You always ask that,” Will smiled bitterly. “Eight months and you couldn’t come up with something a little more original?”

There was a tense silence. Alan would either go along with the joke, or he wouldn’t. Will wasn’t sure which response she would prefer.

“The doctor’s said you were dehydrated and you had a fever. From what I could gather, you had not eaten since you were found in Sugar Loaf.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t be,” Alan agreed. “Jack won’t be bothering you until the doctor’s clear your condition as stabilized.”

“I feel plenty stable right now,” Will lied.

“This is your second time coming out a fugue state,” Bloom said bluntly, words stirring an old fear deep inside Will. A fear of needles and sanitariums and lost time. “Do you remember the first?”

“No,” Will croaked behind a sob that wanted to escape. She sealed her lips and clenched her teeth; wouldn’t let it put voice to the wreck that she was.

“I didn’t think so,” a pause. “I will be working with the staff here to help determine when you are ready to have visitors. After that, we’ll see about letting a federal agent question you on what you are comfortable with.”

“Am I,” Will started, but she wasn’t sure how to ask the question burning her tongue. “Is this a medical hospital?”

“Yes,” Alan answered. “But I’ll be having you transferred.”

“Please don’t,” Will did sob then. Fat tears; she didn’t care what she looked like anymore. “Please, Alan. Don’t send me there.”

Doctor Bloom gathered her up to his chest like she was a child. Willow cried into his button up, sloppy and out of control. He held her in a firm grip, like he could will the impending breakdown away. Like he could pull all Will’s fraying tethers back together.

“The facility is under new management,” Bloom assured. “I am the current administrator for the Baltimore State Hospital. You’ll be under my care, Willow. I know it must be the last place you want to be, but you need to get your life back in order before we can just let you walk out of the door.”

The tears did not stop for a long time. When they did, Alan leaned Will back onto her bed. She was quiet and compliant, her eyes glassy and expression blank. The doctor sighed, ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He picked up his book and started reading where he left off. After another forty-five minutes, Willow stirred.

“A little dark, don’t you think?”

Alan Bloom’s heart ached, Will’s voice like ripping stitches from a wound desperately trying to heal. He steadied himself, put the book aside once more.

“Most of the southern gothics are. How are you feeling?”


End file.
